I recently read a Newsweek article entitled ‘A Path to Downward Mobility’. The quote that grabbed my attention read, “Every generation of Americans should live better than its predecessor. That’s Americans’ core definition of economic progress. But for today’s young, it may be a mirage.” Basically, my generation will be the first to be less successful than our parents. The article blamed things like increasing energy prices, stretched governments at all levels squeezing future disposable incomes, and pricey public services. However, I’m taking a different approach. Generation Whatever the Fuck, fucking sucks. I actually had to look up what generation I am a part of. It turns out I belong to Generation Y. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it as Generation X or the Baby Boomers. I don’t find it surprising Y sucks considering I’m too lazy to even put sheets on my bed. Everyday I wake up drooling on a bare, twin size mattress perched on the bottom half of a former bunk bed set. When I wake up on drunken mornings I know I’ve made it home safely if I see my signed Patrick Ewing Jersey I pissed $600 away for staring back at me. Sorry car payments and student loans, I had to have memorabilia from the eleventh best center of all time take up the entire wall facing my bed.
Living at home again after being away from college is a tough reality to swallow. When I was in high school, I thought a light bulb would go off in my head when I was in college that said, “OK it’s time to grow up.” That realization has yet to come. I can’t make a decision for the life of me. However, one of the few things I do know is that if I take a slam pig home, I can’t let Oinky see my limited edition silkscreen Arcade Fire concert posters hanging above my clown light switch from 1986. My generation is the type that when we want to class things up a bit, we will bring girls into our parents’ beds. Nothing says “I love you Mom” more than leaving a puddle of millions of potential grand kids for her to stew in. We are inconsiderate, indecisive pussies. We just aren’t as tough as our predecessors.
I’m fortunate to still have an 89 year old grandfather who fought in World War II. He is one tough son of a bitch. He came to America from Sicily when he was 16, with literally 35 cents in his pocket. While slowly learning English, he slaved away in factories while in high school and managed to get a scholarship to Brooklyn College. After two years in school, he was drafted, killed some Nazis, and returned home to finish college and made something of himself. Now try telling this fucker you want to be a stand-up comic. The efforts of the generations who formed this great country allowed the opportunity for some lost kid to have stand-up comedy as a career choice. However, my grandfather can’t comprehend a man wasting his time telling dick jokes to a room full of strangers. He thinks it’s a bunch of bullshit. I hate to admit it but he’s right. Most comics just sit around smoking pot and watching TV during the day. Then around 9 P.M. they stumble to a comedy club and brilliantly ask, “You guys see the new Double Mint commercial?” Shut the fuck up. No one cares about your unoriginal, not close to engaging, barely relatable bullshit jokes. But hey, without past generations who broke their ass, the option of being another shitty comedian couldn’t happen.
We aren’t as advanced as generations past at this point in our development. What really bugs me out is my parents were married at my age. I can’t imagine being married. My wife would fucking hate me. “I’d love to go curtain shopping, but it’s the trading deadline in fantasy football league (classily named the Sean Taylor Experience), so I have some very serious decisions to make regarding my flex rb/wr option.”
I can’t have some female telling me I can’t have Lucky Charms for dinner. My motto is: no food, eat some cereal. I’m even too damn lazy to chew cereal. Ever choke on Frosted Mini Wheats? It’s like you tried to swallow a wicker basket.
I can’t even wipe properly. As soon as a girl saw some skid marks I’m done. “Yeah, about that underwear you found baking in the radiator, the good news is I didn’t perma-fart. The bad news is I’m not the best wiper, just throw it in with your whites hun.” I’m lucky if I do my laundry once a month. By the end of the month I start dressing sharp because the only clean clothes I have left are my dress shirts and pants. “Ah Rick, why are you wearing a tux to Duffy’s Tavern?” This is all I got…
I’m even too lazy to get up and pop in a DVD when my fat is embedded in the couch. I’ll watch Police Academy 4 On Demand if it means I don’t have to get up. If my remote ran out of batteries at 4 AM, I’d watch hicks try to sell me samurai swords and nun-chucks for 3 hours and actually try and convince myself why I need a battle axe with a dragon handle.
My father (former son in law of Gramps) tried to get me motivated at the end of my senior year of college. He bragged to me that he graduated college on a Sunday and went to work the following Monday. I too graduated on a Sunday dad, but didn’t start working a serious job until the following January while I was trying to “figure shit out.” My father’s nickname is the Tin Man, because like that oilless prick, he has no heart. Fuck I’d call him the Iceman because he has no emotions at all. Not a Val Kilmer, “you’re dangerous” into a queer teeth on teeth bight Iceman. I’m talking tie two cats’ tails together and watch them kill each other Iceman, Richard Kuklinski type of blankness. My pops wasn’t always that way. I’m told he was a great musician but became an accountant instead because his father told him, you’re guaranteed a job as an accountant. Our predecessors were more practical about their current status and futures even if it meant they shit away their dreams. The older I get, the more I appreciate those who can simply, get real. My dad sees dollar signs in everything he does. My step mother’s father had diabetes and had become ill do to the complications. He had to get the old Civil War treatment clever to the legs. My father saw this as a business opportunity instead of leaving his father-in-law’s misfortune to rest. He was inspired to open a specialty shoe store that treats diabetics. Tragedy inspired him to make some jack. Some may call it heartless and pure American greed, but I think this is the intuition that most of my generation lacks. I for one am too much of a laid back vagina.
I went over my girlfriend’s parents house for a little BBQ over the summer. Her dad is pretty intense to say the least. He is the type of guy that tries to over man everything. The grown up version of the guy who carries a 30 case of Natty Light just for himself at a house party. I went around to the backyard with brownies so I didn’t come without an offering to the Man God and see that her dad was unnecessarily grilling several meat selections on 3 separate grills that made a “U” of firey death. So faggoty me has brownies in my hand while I look in terror as Tough Guy Johnson is grilling mountains of meat for only about 10 people.
When he was done with his first of seven batches of hot dogs he whistles me over to be the fag who brings a big plate over to him to transfer the meat from the grill to the table. After I successfully Kelly Kapowski’ed the food over, I sat down and he made me fucking eat like a savage. I felt like throwing a rock on Piggy from Lord of the Flies fat head after this savage meal. I felt like he was fattening me up to be thrown on the grill next. He was staring at me with minimal conversation the whole time, putting more and more shit on my plate. I was overpowered by a guy in his late fifties. He’s more man than me.
I’d like to conclude by talking about the biggest waste my generation has to offer. One of my childhood friends faced up to 55 years in prison for stealing his father’s gun and trading it for heroine in good old Paterson, NJ. My friend has been caught for drugs before, but nothing seemed to deter this young chap from getting his fix. Months before this incident he was warned that the next time he was caught with drugs, he’d face serious jail time. Not only did he call the judge’s bluff, but he threw a gun in there for good measure. I personally have never tried heroine, but it must be one hell of a drug to literally risk your asshole for. I can honestly say that I’d rather be killed than raped by 7 neo-Nazis or rather large black males. Jail is a scary enough place without rape. I don’t need Schillinger and Adebesi reenacting the series finally of Oz on my asshole. For instance I love to drink. If someone told me, dude the next time that you drink, I am going to force a Juicy Juice can up your asshole, I’d be done drinking. Even before the recession, Generation Whatever the Fuck was on pace to be downright lazy, inconsiderate, and just plain dumb. Now we are left to push this country forward without the traits that made those that came before us so great. I just want to thank all of those generations that came before us to give us the option to pick and choose what path we want to take with our lives. Without them we wouldn’t have the choice to be fuck ups.